


the lengths

by livthelion



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: (more always show up), Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff, Future Fic, M/M, Witches, that trope where one of them is forced to break up with the other to protect them, the herpes of the supernatural community
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-06
Updated: 2017-02-06
Packaged: 2018-09-22 08:43:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9597383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/livthelion/pseuds/livthelion
Summary: Derek comes back to Beacon Hills.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Title from ['The Lengths'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o8tBPidveM4) by the Black Keys
> 
> ‘tell me what you were thinking  
> to treat somebody so  
> the care he took  
> the lengths to which he’d go’

**i.**

Derek comes back to Beacon Hills after years of travelling. Comes back with his hair longer than he’s had it in his life and a beard that has overtaken his face. He hardly recognizes himself these days.

He’s only just set foot in the loft, only just put his bag down and taken a minute to glance wordlessly around the place he’d briefly called home, when the door slides open and his living room is filled with people; some he barely recognizes, some he doesn’t at all.

And one he’d know anywhere.

The pack has grown since he’d last seen them, in every way. There are nine now, and none of them children. Stiles is no exception, his face sharp and tired and _grown_ , but still achingly familiar though he’s changed so much; a body that finally caught up to the size of its’ frame.

He supposes it’s his own fault for not assuming they would come. Should’ve figured they’d have some kind of alert system in place. And still, Derek is so caught off-guard by their sudden appearance, it doesn’t even occur to him that they may not know him on sight, that he’d need to defend himself.

He finds himself flat on his back in a matter of seconds, the Alpha’s hand around his throat before he even knows what hits him, and Derek is grudgingly impressed at his speed.

“What do you want with Derek Hale?” Scott snarls down at him, eyes blazing red. It’s a clear display of power; threatening, but calculatedly so; control finally mastered after all these years. His claws and fangs aren’t even extended.

Derek feels a small surge of pride.

“Aw, man, are we killing someone today?” asks one of the new ones, sounding mildly put out. “Because I am not wearing the right shoes to go traipsing through the woods at night to bury another body, okay? I like these ones too much, Scott. They’re _new_ , and expensive.”

“Shut up, Mason,” someone else grumbles, “If I have to dig, so do you.”

Derek snorts, in spite of himself.

So maybe they are still children, despite appearances. It’s almost a relief.

Stiles approaches at the sound of Derek’s amusement, hovering a few feet behind his best friend and studying the stranger on the floor through narrowed eyes. Derek thinks, for one agonizing moment, that Stiles won’t recognize him either, won’t _see_ him.

But not even a second has passed before his eyes widen almost comically and he surges forward, shoving Scott off of Derek. “It’s _him_ you, jackass; _get off.”_

Scott looks doubtful, but he lets Stiles move him, eyes shifting back to their natural brown. He regards Derek skeptically. “Are you sure?”

Derek doesn’t blame him. He’s seen better days.

Stiles just gives Scott a look in response and turns back to the man on the floor, offering his hand. Derek only considers it for a half-second before accepting it and letting Stiles help to his feet. He expects the boy – man, now, maybe – to let go once he has, but Stiles was always unpredictable at best.

He yanks Derek forward easily, stronger than Derek is anticipating, and pulls him into a tight hug, not seeming to mind that Derek’s arms hang awkwardly in the air around him.

“You’re back, I can’t believe you’re _back,”_ Stiles breathes, face planted firmly into Derek’s shoulder. Relief and happiness are pouring off of him in waves, and it’s another thing Derek hadn’t been expecting; someone to be genuinely glad of his return. He slowly relaxes into Stiles’ embrace and gruffly pats him on the back, letting his guard down the way he always does, eventually, around Stiles.

He pulls away suddenly, too soon for Derek’s liking, and holds him at arm’s length, looking annoyed. “What took you so long?”

Derek barks a laugh and rolls his eyes, going without a fight when Stiles tugs him back in. Stiles is pulled out of his arms, too soon, maybe, and replaced by Scott, Lydia, Isaac, Kira; briefly by Malia, the cousin he’d barely had a chance to know.

A man he belatedly realizes is Liam, the little bottle of rage he’d briefly tried to help Scott train back in the day, gives him a firm handshake and an easy smile. He steps back and a woman he doesn’t know—wolf, he notes—wraps her arms around his waist, matching silver bands glinting on their ring fingers.

The one who’d spoken earlier, worried about his shoes, waves somewhat sheepishly from Liam’s other side, and Derek is starting to remember him, too, running around with Liam when they were younger.

Liam and his wife and best friend take off soon after that, but the others stay and make themselves comfortable, harass him into telling them what he’s been doing these last eight years, order food and take over his apartment before he can even consider settling in.

Stiles stays beside him the entire night, staring more often than not, as if reassuring himself that Derek is really there. He seems reluctant to let Derek out of his sight, even for a moment. He follows Derek to the kitchen when he goes looking for somewhere to put the drinks that came with the take out. Derek doesn’t have the heart to tease him about it. Can’t really, when he feels the same.

He finds some glasses in the cupboard, dusty but still in good use, and rinses them out, figuring if anyone was opposed, they could always go home and use their own damn dishes. Stiles wraps his arms around Derek from behind suddenly, just holding him, and Derek stills, the glass he’d been washing nearly slipping from his fingers.

“I know I’m being weird; I’m just really glad you’re back,” Stiles mumbles against his shoulder.

Derek lets out a tiny, amused huff and sets the cup down, patting Stiles’ hand. He means to let go, but for whatever reason, finds his fingers settling and curling around the boy’s wrist instead.

The little smile Stiles gives him before they return to the others tells him that he understands.

-

Stiles falls asleep on Derek’s shoulder sometime around midnight, snoring and drooling the tiniest bit, but strangely Derek doesn’t mind much. He catches himself nodding off right alongside him more than once.

It’s near one when Lydia finally stands.

“We should let Derek get some sleep,” she says with the hint of a smile. He looks at her gratefully, but his thanks die in his mouth when she follows that up with, “Who knows, maybe if we’re lucky he’ll even have time to remove that dead thing on his face before he goes to bed.” She grins as Derek strokes his beard protectively.

Stiles wakes just enough to mumble an indignant, “Hey, leave Derek and his beard alone. I like it.”

Scott rolls his eyes, muttering, “Yeah, well, you would.” It’s pointed, accusing almost, and Derek is abruptly confused.

Stiles is looking more alert by the second, face slowly turning red. He avoids meeting Derek’s questioning gaze, manically agreeing that it’s time for them to get going. Derek decides to leave it alone.

They give Derek smiles and hugs and kisses on the cheek, respectively, as they file out. Stiles is the last to leave, lingering at the door, smiling at Derek goofily.

Derek presses the corners of his own mouth down. It’s harder than it should be.

“What?”

Stiles ducks his head, trying to hide his smile. “Nothing,” he says, unconvincing. “I’m glad you’re back.”

“You said that already,” Derek points out, but the smile wins out, his eyes crinkling with it, despite his best efforts. He pretends he doesn’t hear the way Stiles’ heartbeat falters and picks up because it’s the polite thing to do and he’s not really sure what to do with that information.

“I know,” Stiles manages after a beat, with a little roll of his eyes, “I just—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head, and moves in for another quick hug.

He tugs lightly on Derek’s beard as he pulls back. “Night, _Sourwolf.”_

Derek snaps his jaws in annoyance and Stiles runs away, laughing, before he can retaliate.

Later, when he’s unpacked the essentials and showered, Derek cuts his hair and shaves the beard down to stubble, the way he used to when he cared. He studies his reflection a while. He still barely recognizes himself.

-

“Well, holy shit,” Stiles whistles lowly when Derek grumpily opens the door the next morning. “Your face is still- wow,” he finishes lamely.

Derek lifts an eyebrow and he backtracks.  
“I mean, don’t get me wrong, you looked good with the beard, but- Just. Good job,” he manages, giving Derek a goofy smile and an awkward thumbs up. “Good job on the face.”

Derek laughs, albeit reluctantly. It’s too early, only six in the morning for Christ’s sake; no normal person is up at this hour without reason and Derek does not have a reason. But still, he can’t feel as irritated about being woken up at such an awful hour, not with the way Stiles keeps smiling at him.

Stiles magically produces a couple breakfast burritos from the little brown bag Derek hadn’t noticed him carrying, lightly complaining about not having factored in Derek’s lack of coffee to the morning. He leaves for work, the true reasoning behind the early house call, and comes back at a quarter to five with a coffee maker that has Derek, on sight, resigning himself to reading a manual, and a five pound bag of Kona.

Stiles just grins when Derek lifts a questioning eyebrow, and says, “Trust me. You’ll need it.”

Derek believes him, strangely enough.

**ii.**

It becomes something of a routine.

Stiles shows up daily—sometimes several times a day if he has to work or tend to his other friends (in which case, he leaves for a while, coming back with fond eye-rolls and talk of clinginess). Stiles hugs him in greeting and in farewell, and, at times, for no discernible reason at all. Scott and the others hug him now, too, though far less than Stiles. It’s a lot to get used to after being on his own for so long.

He hasn’t really been alone, not the entire time, anyway. He had Braeden briefly, and after they parted ways, he stayed with Cora and her pack a while. He’d spent the following years moving around, going places he’d always wanted to go, working through his issues and traumas, learning to accept and love himself, to stop blaming himself for the things that happened when he was a child.

He still does despite everything, but he doesn’t feel that all-encompassing self-loathing so much anymore, and it took years to get to that point.

-

Derek shuffles to the door, eyes still partially closed, and thinks that whoever’s knocking on his door at three o’clock in the morning better have a damn good reason. (He knows exactly who it is.)

Stiles is waiting on the other side, humming under his breath, a pink bakery box in hand. He looks happy to see Derek, if exhausted, uniform rumpled from a long day at work. His smile becomes contrite as he takes in the wolf’s bleary state.

“Sorry,” Stiles says sheepishly. “I just got off work and for some reason I assumed you’d be awake, too. My bad, homie; I forget you’re old now.”

Derek crosses his arm and leans against the doorframe. It’s less to appear menacing and more the result of sheer exhaustion. Maybe he has gotten old.

“Oh, I’m sorry for not sensing your imminent arrival and failing to have the house prepared,” Derek replies. Sarcasm is becoming second nature again, undoubtedly the result of spending so much time with Stiles. “Someone woke me up at five a.m. yesterday expecting me to entertain them because they just couldn’t sleep anymore, _and then_ had me spend the afternoon helping his parents move into their new house while he took a nap.”

Sure, the Stilinskis had packed up their belongings, but Derek had almost single-handedly loaded and unloaded the moving truck, hauling boxes up and down stairs and into the rooms in which they belonged. He wasn’t sore, exactly, but he could feel a phantom ache in his lower back where the pain would’ve been if he were human.

Noah had tried to slide him some cash for his trouble, and Derek had predictably refused. He doesn’t need it, for one, and he wouldn’t accept money from Stiles’ dad even if he did. Melissa had insisted on feeding him though, the best home-cooked meal he’s had in a long while, and sent him home with lots of leftovers, making Stiles promise to bring him over more often.

Stiles sighs at him heavily, eyes rolling backward in his head. It’s been less than a day, and already this argument is old.

“I told you, Derek, I can’t do any heavy lifting; I rolled my shoulder the other day when I was arresting a bad guy. You’re welcome for making this town a safer place, by the way.”

Derek doesn’t dignify that with a response.

“Besides, I don’t hear you complaining about Scott not helping and they’re his parents, too,” Stiles points out. “Just because he was out doing an ‘emergency procedure’ on a ‘schnauzer’ that got hit by a ‘car,’” he scoffs. “And somehow I’m the selfish one.”

Derek continues to stare at him impassively.

Stiles makes a face and starts whining, “I’m sorry I fell asleep, okay? I was tired; I woke up at five!”

Derek’s gaze flattens. He takes a step back and begins to close the door in his face.

Stiles wedges his boot in the doorway, visibly trying not to laugh. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I can’t help it sometimes. You’re just so cute when you’re mad.” He grins at Derek, head resting against the wooden frame. “Come on, man, you might as well let me in. Don’t make me stay outside your house all night, testing my sirens.”

Derek gives no sign of stopping. Either Stiles will remove his foot or Derek will remove the foot for him. Permanently.

Stiles looks down in alarm. “Hey, _hey!_ I brought you doughnuts.”

Derek stops trying to take Stiles foot off and rubs a hand over his face tiredly. “This feels like coercion.”

“Glad we’re on the same page,” Stiles agrees cheerfully, clapping Derek on a weary shoulder and elbowing his way inside.

Derek slides the door closed behind him with a sigh. At least the little punk had brought donuts. Ironic, considering his occupation.

He’d grown anxious when he first learned that Stiles had decided to follow in his father’s footsteps, and tried to hide it, getting angry at himself. What right did he have to worry after he left for so long, going years without a single word?

He had reason to leave, _good_ reason; any sane person probably would have cut their losses years earlier. But despite all of the terrible things that had happened there, Beacon Hills was his home, the place he grew up and the place he planned to die, just as the rest of his family had. He just had to get out of there for a while; heal. Little had he known he’d be healing for eight years.

Despite his best effort, Stiles had seen his reaction, and instead of laughing or pointing out that Derek had no right to be upset, he had placed his hand on Derek’s leg, patted it comfortingly, and said, _“Don’t worry; that’s why Dad made Kira my partner. She doesn’t let me get into to trouble, no matter how much I try.”_

He always could read Derek better than anyone else.

“Star Wars marathon, _fuck yeah,”_ Derek hears Stiles say from the living room, and then, “Dude, you have any more of that pollo asado Mel sent home with you yesterday?” His pronunciation is clumsy, at best, but Derek still finds himself smiling. He realizes with some alarm that he finds it... cute. Adorable might actually be more fitting. Huh.

“Promise I won’t talk through the entire movie,” Stiles wheedles, taking his silence as refusal. “I’ll do your laundry for a week. Two weeks! I’ll sit here quietly and let you go back to sleep. I’ll rub your feet. I’ll draw you a bath. I’ll—”

As amusing as it would be to see just how much Stiles is willing to offer him in exchange for some, admittedly, amazing food, Derek cuts him off.

“I’ll make a plate for you, just shut up already.”

“You’re the best,” Stiles calls. “Maybe a couple tortillas, too? And those beans I know she sent with you? With just a smidge of rice and salsa on the side? Thanks!”

Derek rolls his eyes, inexplicably fond, and goes to fetch the poor, starving man on his couch some food.

-

He becomes accustomed to being woken at odd hours. He gives Stiles a key, eventually, if only to get a few more minutes of sleep before Stiles comes crashing upstairs to jump on his bed and bother him until he gets up. He doesn’t hate it as much as he could.

This time, Stiles lands on one of Derek’s legs. Derek tries to kick him off half-heartedly and gives up. Stiles isn’t budging and he’s too tired to make him.

“Kira and Malia want us to go out drinking with them tonight,” Stiles says by way of greeting.

It had come as a surprise, learning his cousin was dating the kitsune, but not an unpleasant one. Malia is different now. Softer, more open. Still blunt, unfortunately so at times, and ruthless when it comes to combat, but she seems more at peace with herself, and that’s what matters.

Derek groans internally. “Not that shady shifter bar they keep talking about.”

“Mm. The very same,” Stiles says, words muffled.

Derek lifts an eyelid to glare at him. “How many times do I have to tell you to stop bringing food into my bed.” Derek hears the lie coming before Stiles even opens his mouth.

“Last time; swear.” He takes another bite of his Danish. He notices Derek scowling at him and blinks owlishly, glancing between the werewolf and his pastry. He sticks it under Derek’s nose. “Want some?”

Derek rolls his eyes and accepts, making sure he takes a bigger bite than strictly necessary and giving a warning look that tells Stiles he’d better not complain. Stiles just grins and pops the last bit of Danish in his mouth.

“Thought you had to work tonight,” Derek grunts.

“Switched my shift. Is that a yes?”

“I guess,” Derek grumbles, “If we have to.”  
  
“Good, because I already told them yes and I didn’t really feel like spending the entire day trying to persuade your grumpy ass,” Stiles says, eyes on his phone screen as he taps out a message.

Derek’s expression darkens. “You little-”

Stiles dives off the bed with a cackle before Derek can grab and strangle him.

-

The bar’s not as bad as he’d been expecting. It’s a dive, sure, but that just means the drinks are cheaper. Plus, it’s a space made specifically with their kind in mind, in the middle of nowhere, so Derek doesn’t have to worry too much about the moment one of them inevitably gets too drunk and does something that no human being should be able to do.

He, Malia and Lydia start the night off by doing a line of shots, three each, which is about the point Stiles realizes he’s expected to play DD tonight.

“Should’ve probably guessed when the words ‘shifter bar’ started getting thrown around,’” Stiles says ruefully. “That’s my bad, I guess, huh,” he says, smiling and nudging Derek and Derek laughs harder than is probably necessary, already feeling the alcohol’s effects.

Lydia buys him another round.

At some point, Parrish joins them and Lydia and Kira decide they want to dance. Derek shakes his head fondly as Kira stumbles around the small dance area with his cousin, both of them laughing uncontrollably, and tries to figure out how she’d gotten so drunk, so quickly.

Derek is on his way there, too, but at least it isn’t from a single coke and whisky. He’s still in that float-y stage where everything is beautiful and nothing hurts.

It ends too soon.

He notices her sizing Stiles up from across the bar, gaze definitely interested, and has to fight down a snarl. The shame follows quickly. It’s not his place to try and keep anyone away from Stiles. Stiles is a grown man; a police officer, and most importantly, Stiles isn’t his.

Derek smiles absently, eyes on his drink, as Stiles talks about some pool they have going at work— apparently they were taking bets on how long it would take Greenberg to make his first arrest, now he’s officially off desk duty (Stiles is betting three weeks _and_ that he’d somehow manage to harm himself in the process; Derek has met Greenberg a couple times, and it’s not unlikely.)

It’s not long before she’s coming over and introducing herself. _Vanessa_. Derek decides he’s never liked the name.

Derek is graced with a perfunctory glance as Stiles offers up both of their names in return, but he smiles politely and hopes Stiles can’t see the tension rolling off of him. He doesn’t trust her, and it doesn’t take him long to realize it has nothing to do with whether or not she’s an actual threat. He just doesn’t like how she holds Stiles’ attention, doesn’t like the way they smile at each other and speak as if they’ve known each other for years.

He sticks around as long as is strictly polite and then excuses himself with the lame excuse of checking in on their friends, who are now very poorly playing pool at a table in the back of the bar.

Stiles seems put out for a moment, but he only smiles cheerfully and says, “Hurry back.”

Derek watches a while as Lydia and Malia play eight ball against their respective dates, until he grows tired of being the dragging fifth wheel to two such happy, healthy couples, and goes looking for another drink. He settles at the opposite end of the bar and orders a beer, staring oh, so subtly at the back of Stiles’ head as he and his new friend laugh and talk.

Three beers later, Vanessa finally looks away from Stiles long enough to catch sight of Derek, drinking alone, watching them like a sad loser. He looks away too slowly to even pretend he hadn’t been.

She leans in and says something to Stiles, nodding in Derek’s general direction. Stiles glances over his shoulder and double-takes.

He shoots Derek a quizzical look. _What are you doing over there?_

Derek lifts his drink, the gesture somehow sarcastic, and takes another long swig. Stiles’ gaze drifts downward, almost seeming to follow the movement of Derek’s throat, but snaps back up so quickly, Derek is sure he’d been imagining it.

Stiles jerks his head toward the empty seat to his right with a roll of his eyes and a smile tugging at his mouth.

But Derek really doesn’t need to be around to witness, first-hand, the beginnings of this particular relationship. It’s bad enough having to see it from his current seat.

 _“I’m good,”_ he mouths, downing the rest of his drink and signaling to the bartender for another.

Stiles’ smile dims and he looks...hurt. Just for a split second and then it’s gone. He lifts his eyebrows good-naturedly, _suit yourself_ , and turns back to Vanessa.

Derek watches them fall seamlessly back into their conversation, the uncomfortable tightness in his chest growing until he has to force himself to look away. He focuses on the lone flat screen mounted above the bar and pretends to be interested in whatever game they have on at the moment, though he couldn’t care less.

Out of the corner of his eye, he watches as Vanessa moves closer to Stiles, putting a hand on his arm, and then Malia is stepping in his field of vision, Kira and Lydia and Parrish in tow, yelling about doing more shots. Derek takes another look at Stiles and Vanessa, heads bowed together, and decides he’s one hundred percent on board with that.

They order drink after drink after drink, until things start getting fuzzy around the edges and room is spinning idly and he can barely recall what had been bothering him so much in the first place.

He blinks and his cousin and the others have disappeared, though he can hear their drunken laughter somewhere in the room. He blinks again and Stiles is at his side, sighing and taking the drink Derek hadn’t even realized he was holding out of his hand and setting it on the bar.

“Come on, big guy, I think it’s time to call it a night.”

Derek nods numbly and pats Stiles’ cheek, jerking back in surprise when he sees the contrast of his hands, strange and ugly and clawed, against Stiles’ soft, pale skin.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, hurriedly sticking his hands back at his sides and out of sight.

“For what?” Stiles asks curiously.

“That I’m like this.” He means shifted, mostly, but in a way, it also feels like he’s apologizing for his entire existence.

“Don’t be,” Stiles says simply. “I like how you are.”

And even though he knows Stiles doesn’t mean it like _that,_ he feels a crinkly smile overtake his face, undoubtedly stupid-looking in his current half-shifted state, but he can’t find it in him to care.

Stiles looks at him disbelievingly, turning red.

“Aw, come _on.”_

Derek hears him grumbling under his breath as he sinks down into the seat beside him, only catching the odd phrase; like, “doesn’t even have _eyebrows,”_ and “the freaking sideburns” and “what’s _wrong_ with me?”

Derek looks at him confusedly, but Stiles just shakes his head and flags down the bartender.

“Can we get a couple glasses of water, please? Big ones. A round for those idiots, too,” he adds, gesturing to their friends, back on the dancefloor, still standing by some miraculous force, though it looks as if that could change at any moment.

Stiles keeps looking over at him while they wait, smiling and reaching up to touch the hairless ridge of his brow or tug at his sideburns. Derek can’t even pretend to mind.

The bartender sets two large waters in front of them and Stiles pushes the extra one over to Derek, too.

“Drink up. I’m not a hundred percent sure I can carry you all the way to the car and I really don’t need my pride wounded any more today than it already has been.”

Derek doesn’t completely understand what he means by that, but he sips his water obediently.

“Where’d your _friend_  go,” he asks a few minutes later, super casual-like.

Stiles aims a small smile at the bar. “I don’t know. Home, I guess.”

Derek frowns into his water, hating the voice that pops up in his head saying Stiles probably has plans to meet her there later.

“You get her number or something?” he grunts.

“Nope,” Stiles says easily. 

 “Oh.”

 Derek looks down.

“I didn’t mess it up for you, did I?” he asks, quiet.

Stiles laughs like he’s remembering a private joke.

“In a way.”

Derek is hit with a fresh wave of shame. “Sorry.”

Stiles just stares at him, smile softening. “I’m not.”

Derek hides his red face in his last cup of water.

He loses some time and before he knows it, the cup is empty and Stiles is putting a tip down for what has to be the world’s most patient bartender and getting to his feet.

“Alright, ready to go?”

Derek nods woodenly and allows Stiles to help him from his chair. He’s a little wobbly on his feet, which is probably why Stiles just laughs at him before grabbing Derek’s arm and putting it over his shoulder. Derek isn’t sure how they make it to the parking lot; he certainly isn’t being any help.

Stiles props him up against the car while he gets the door open.

“Where’s everyone else?” Derek asks, once he’s in his seat and safely buckled in courtesy of Stiles. (He’d tried arguing that it wasn’t necessary, but Stiles had just fixed him with a stern look and said, “Cop, Derek.” And that had been that.)

Stiles chuckles. “Scott’s on his way to pick them up, remember?”

Derek vaguely recalls listening to Stiles argue with Scott about coming to help him because, “all four of them are completely shitfaced, dude — Oh, _oh,_ cause it’s just that easy, right? — I’ve yet to see you make Malia do anything she doesn’t want to do when she’s _sober_. And let me tell you, Scott, she is _not_ sober and she does _not_ want to get in this car. — No, I’m taking Derek home; the rest of them are _your_ responsibility. — Well, tough titties, bro. I have my priorities; you have yours. — I know you are, but what am I? — Yeah, whatever, shithead. Love you, too.”

“Oh, yeah,” Derek says sheepishly.

They drive in silence for a while, Stiles’ off-key humming lulling him to edge of sleep.

“Are you gonna pass out on me?” Stiles asks him, glancing over concernedly.

“No,” Derek lies, sinking down more comfortably in his seat and letting his eyes slipped closed just for a moment.

A bony finger jabs him in the shoulder and Derek grunts in mild annoyance, swatting at it seconds too slow.

“Dude.”

“Hmm.”

“Derek, wake up.”

“Yeah.”

“Der _ek_ ,” Stiles whines. “You promised you wouldn’t fall asleep.”

Had he? When?

“Shh,” Derek mumbles, “Just for a second.”

Stiles huffs. “Fine. But don’t get mad when I leave your furry ass inside this car while I sleep in your nice, warm bed.”

Derek would laugh, but it seems like too much effort at the moment. “You wouldn’t do that.”

Stiles sighs. “I know,” he says glumly. “I hate you.”

The corners of Derek’s mouth twitch. He falls asleep before he can call Stiles out on the lie.

-

Derek wakes with a hangover for the first time in his life and decides that humans are stupid for doing this to themselves, voluntarily and repeatedly. It’s a struggle, crawling out of bed and getting clothes together for a shower, but he manages somehow.

After he’s showered and clean, mouth minty and no longer tasting of death, Derek trudges downstairs in search of coffee. Instead, he finds Stiles passed out on the couch, one half of his body balanced precariously at the edge and the other contorted in a way that is not at all endearing.

Derek’s cheeks warm as he begins to remember Stiles helping him up the stairs, despite his many insistences that he wouldn’t, and tucking him into bed. He gets distracted, watching Stiles’ chest rise and fall, fingers twitching restlessly, and trips over the rug Lydia had brought him last week that he keeps forgetting about. He curses loudly, arms swinging out to stop himself from falling on his face.

Stiles bolts upright, looking more alert than he has any right to be. He catches sight of Derek, arms out in front of him, frozen, and grins.

“Why, good morning, princess. I went to check on you a little while ago, but you were still out so I went back to sleep. The coffee’s ready to go, though, all you have to do is turn it on. Oh, and I went out and picked up some bagels from that place you like. They’re not super fresh anymore, but I have a feeling that doesn’t matter to you right now.”

It does not. “You’re the fucking best,” Derek mumbles, stomach growling, and follows his nose to the bag Stiles had placed in the microwave and nearly cries, they smell so good. He pops a couple in the four-slice toaster Stiles had bought for “convenience” (the impatient little bastard) and leans against the counter.

Stiles laughs. “Don’t I know it,” he says dryly, joining Derek in the kitchen and hopping up on the countertop beside him. “How you feeling?”

Derek ducks his chin and grumbles about the headache he’d woken up with as he prepares his and Stiles’ bagels. It’s already faded, for the most part. A little bit of coffee and he should be fine.

“Cool, cool, cool, cool. Hey, so uh, how much of last night do you remember?” Stiles asks, fingers drumming nervously on his legs. Derek notes with interest, too much maybe, that Stiles has gotten ahold of a pair of his sweatpants.

“Things are pretty foggy after we left the bar,” Derek admits, ears burning. “Why? Did I-” he hesitates. “I didn’t say or do anything bad, right?”

Stiles laughs, though it sounds a little off to Derek. “Nah. Nothing bad. Anyway, Scott’s mad because Parrish puked on his shoes last night and he’s choosing to blame me, for some reason.”

“Gee, I wonder why,” Derek says dryly.

Stiles scoffs indignantly. They spend what’s left of the morning bickering and eating all twelve of the bagels Stiles had picked up for them.

-

Stiles talks him into going out again the following weekend. Derek’s stupid, too.

-

One night, when his tongue is loose from too much wolfsbane-laced beer, a gift from his cousin, Derek asks Stiles why he hasn’t settled down yet.

He knows there’s been people. Lydia, for one. Stiles had admitted that they’d dated for a little while towards beginning of college, but had quickly realized they were better off as friends. Derek had been irrationally irritated with Lydia for a few days after that, but she hadn’t taken it to heart. In fact, Derek got the impression that she’d found the sudden chill amusing.

Stiles just shrugs and looks away, saying, “I don’t know. I’ve dated around, I guess, but I’ve kept it casual, for the most part. No one ever really _fit_. You know?”

And Derek does.

After Mexico, after dying and being reborn and saying his goodbyes, he felt different. Lighter. Like there wasn’t as much guilt and anger weighing him down inside. It made it easier to form casual relationships, a luxury in which he hadn’t really allowed himself to indulge before. And it was good, great at times, but they were flings, not anything that was meant to last.

He catches himself thinking that if it were Stiles, maybe it would, and decides it’s time to stop drinking.

Stiles pouts when he announces they’re done for the night, calling him a killjoy, but doesn’t push the point too hard. He downs the rest of his own hard apple ale (which Derek had poked fun at mercilessly— until he actually tried it) and stands, wobbling dangerously on his feet.

Derek jumps up, drunk, but still more sober than Stiles is, and says, “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Where do you think you’re going? You can’t drive like this.”

Stiles gives him the most sarcastic look he can muster, which is impressive in his current state. “I _know_ that Derek; I’m a cop, are you fucking—?” he turns, still grumbling under his breath.

Derek huffs in amusement and follows him as he heads for the spiral staircase.

“Where are you going?” Derek asks him, tone conversational.

“Where’s it look like I’m going? If you think I’m sleeping on your shitty-ass couch again, you’ve got another-” _hic_ , “-another thing coming, bud.”

Derek rolls his eyes, but follows Stiles up the stairs, a hand on his back to make sure he doesn’t stumble down them and die.

Stiles makes a beeline for the bed, plopping facedown and wrapping himself up like a burrito in Derek’s blanket. Derek doesn’t acknowledge the feelings that bubble up at the sight of Stiles looking so warm and at home. It’s not the first time Stiles has been in his bed, not by a long shot, but it will be the first time he’s slept in it.

Derek doesn’t let himself to dwell. He sticks around long enough to make sure Stiles is alright, and sighs, resigning himself to spending the night on the sofa.

“Where are you going,” Stiles slurs like they’re continuing a conversation, face mashed against Derek’s best pillow.

Derek looks over his shoulder, eyebrow quirked. “To the couch?”

“Don’t be stupid,” Stiles says from his little cocoon. “The bed’s plenty big enough. Comfortable, too. Need to get...” he mumbles, passing out between one word and the next.

Derek snorts, fond and disbelieving, and grabs a pair of sweats, heading to the ensuite to get ready for bed because he, unlike Stiles, is not trying to fall asleep in his jeans.

As he’s washing up, muttering about blanket-stealing humans while Stiles snores heartily (on his side of the bed, he realizes resignedly), he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror.

He looks...better.

**iii.**

She arrives in the autumn, soon after Derek, having heard rumor of the Nemeton—the pack had neutralized it years ago, but as Derek well knew, it didn’t take much to wake it. They still weren’t sure what the witch wanted with it, only that she did, and badly. It quickly became apparent that she was both willing and able to cut down anyone that stood in her way, evidence provided by the trail of dead hikers she left in her wake.

The pack steps in before the bodies start piling up too high. They try to reason with her, offer her an out where all parties leave unharmed; Scott’s idea of course. She hadn’t found the Nemeton yet, no harm, no foul. So she’d killed a few people. They’d be willing to look past that if she swore to walk away and never come back. It wasn’t perfect, but it was the best way to ensure the safety of the town and the pack.

She doesn’t take the deal.

She goes after Stiles first, stupid, stubborn Stiles who should know better than to point a gun at a witch. She sends a dagger at him with little more than a wiggle of her fingertips. He dives out of the way, but not quickly enough. It slices through his arm, landing in the tree behind him with enough force to sink it into the wood to its’ hilt.

He lays on the ground, holding his shoulder, blood dripping across his fingers, and Derek sees red.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” he’s saying, but Derek can barely hear him past the blood thundering in his ears.

Scott snarls and the pack moves on her in one, well-practiced motion.

She might’ve been able to handle all of them, the pack in its’ entirety, but she’d gotten arrogant. The witch holds them off with little flourishes of her fingers and Derek sneaks around her while she’s distracted, toying with them, and comes up behind her, snapping her neck as easily as if it were an exceptionally frail twig.

She crumples to the ground like a puppet with its’ strings cut, and Derek stares down at her until Stiles wraps his arms around him and gently pulls him away. He’s managed not to kill anyone in a decade, but just one month back in this town and he’s already racking up a body count.

“We’d better hope she doesn’t have any friends,” Lydia says, rubbing her arms at the wind chill.

Derek gives her a dull, questioning look, and she mutters something about witches being the herpes of the supernatural community. He wouldn’t know. Hasn’t had much experience dealing with witches up until now. Their kinds tend to steer clear of each other, a prejudice likely instilled in all natural-born witches as it was in born-wolves from a young age.

A cold hand touches his arm, and Derek startles. Lydia is studying him worriedly, though she seems to be doing better, in the general sense. She’d been on edge for the last couple days, and now they knew why. Death must feel different to a banshee when the people they’re close to are involved.

Derek wants to ask why she hadn’t told them, if she knew it would be him, but doesn’t. It probably wouldn’t have made a difference either way.

“He’s gonna be fine, you know,” she tells him, looking at Stiles, and Derek keeps his head down, but nods. She gives his arm another squeeze and leaves him to go and find Jordan.

The pack takes care of the body. He doesn’t watch. Instead he focuses on Stiles, numb, as Scott stitches up the relatively small wound on Stiles’ shoulder and bandages it.

“See that wasn’t so bad, was it?” Scott asks him, grinning when Stiles nods indignantly, and for a second, Scott looks like the dopey kid Derek had first met in the Preserve near the burned out remains of his childhood home. “We’re lucky it wasn’t worse.”

Stiles grimaces and nods at the ground.

“I guess luck might be a strong word,” Scott sighs, and just like that, he’s back to his older, wiser Alpha self. “Thank you.” This is directed to Derek, and the look Scott is giving him, it’s as if he can see how much this is affecting Derek, though he’s doing his best to hide it.

Because Derek is glad Stiles is alive, is glad she, the witch– _Christ_ , he doesn’t even know her name. He’s glad she hadn’t seriously hurt Stiles or any of the rest of their pack, but all Derek can see is the her body lying in the leaves, small and still, and know that he did that.

Stiles takes him home and orders food, puts a movie on to serve as background noise while Derek hides in the shower and scrubs invisible blood off his hands. When he comes out, Stiles wordlessly hands him a plate and a glass of water. They sit in silence, Derek more moving his food around than actually eating. He looks over and sees that Stiles’ plate is looking pretty full, too.

Derek packs the leftovers up and Stiles takes care of the dishes. They haven’t said a word in hours. Derek’s half expecting him to take off after that, but he doesn’t. He steals some of Derek’s clothes and heads off to shower, too.

Derek is lying on his side, trying to put the day’s events from his mind when Stiles finds him. He hesitates one agonizingly long moment before climbing into bed and curling up behind Derek, carefully putting an arm around him, testing the waters.

Derek only realizes how tense he’s been after he relaxes into it. Stiles smells like Derek’s shampoo and Derek’s soap, like _Derek_ , and it settles something inside of him, something he’s not ready to acknowledge just yet. It’s not the right time.

Stiles breaks the silence finally, voice soothing, tells him it wasn’t his fault, she wouldn’t have stopped; she’d already killed three people in the last week, just random hikers that had the misfortune of stumbling across her during her search for the Nemeton. She was dangerous and deranged, and there’s a difference between self-defense and murder.

But it wasn’t self-defense, and it wasn’t about those dead, defenseless humans. He had killed someone, after years of not using violence unless absolutely necessary, years of not causing any more damage than a badly broken nose. He had killed that woman because she’d hurt Stiles.

And that’s what scares him. He’s not sure there’s anything he wouldn’t do to protect Stiles.

**iv.**

Stiles doesn’t really leave after that day, spending his nights at the loft with Derek more often than not. Soon the only times he leaves at all is when he runs out of clothes or needs to go into work.

Derek doesn’t mind, relishes in it, in fact. The company’s nice, for one thing. He grew up with a big family, and he never did quite get used to the quietness that comes with living alone. Stiles fills the silence like it’s his one true mission in life.

The other part of it is just Stiles. He doesn’t know what had changed; why he’d come back and Stiles just _fit_ , but he’s glad for it. Glad about a lot of things, suddenly.

Stiles makes him... happy.

It’s both strange and not strange at all how easy it is to settle into this pattern of waking with Stiles, spending their days together, falling asleep beside him. You’d think he would’ve grown tired of it by now, but he hasn’t and the thing is, he’s not sure that he ever will. Another frightening thought.

He hangs around the Sheriff’s department so much, that eventually, Noah just flat out hands him some paperwork and tells him to start filing. It makes the days Stiles is at work go by faster.

Stiles has nightmares sometimes, but it’s fine because Derek does, too.

It’s a gift, in a way, having someone around that _gets it;_ the nightmares and the guilt and not wanting to go back to sleep even when they’re so exhausted it’s all they can do not to pass out, afraid of what they might see if they close their eyes.

On one of those nights, Stiles tells him about his recurring dream of being stuck in an empty train station and knowing he’ll never be found because no one’s out looking for him; they don’t even remember his name.

He tells Derek about the Dread Doctors and the chimeras, Cory and Hayden and Donovan, Mason and the Beast, and Derek finally gets why Stiles has been so reluctant to tell him about that period in the pack’s history, why Mason’s boyfriend smells so strange and Stiles seemed to be speaking from experience when he’d told Derek that there was a difference between self-defense and murder.

Neither of their hands are clean: Derek had been used time and again to hurt his family, his pack, just as Stiles had been used to hurt all those people, Allison, by the Nogitsune. But there’s something different about having to make the decision between someone else’s life – even someone that’s trying to kill you – and your own.

Mostly, Derek just hates that Stiles had suffered so much more than he knew, hates that he hadn’t been there, thinks that maybe he could’ve helped Stiles if he had come back just a little sooner.

“I’m doing better,” Stiles says defensively, not seeming to comprehend that Derek is holding him, nosing at his shoulder, taking in his grounding, warm scent, to comfort himself, too. Or maybe he does because he squeezes Derek around the middle and runs a hand down his back, soothing.

“You should’ve seen me after the Nogitsune,” Stiles jokes roughly. “Now, _those_ were some night terrors. This is small fries compared to that.” He’s distracted, then, his face taking on a dreamy quality. “Mmm, fries.”

He rolls out of Derek’s arms suddenly and jumps up, pulling on the nearest pair of pants.

“Come on, Derek, I’m hungry,” he says impatiently when he sees that Derek hasn’t moved.

Derek sinks deeper into the bed. “How is that my problem?”

Stiles raises his eyebrows, disbelieving. “I’m _hungry_ ,” he says indignantly, like that should be enough in and of itself, and Derek laughs and goes easily when Stiles grabs his hand and yanks him out of bed.

It becomes another of their regular things, leaving the house in the middle of the night when neither of them can sleep or Stiles gets off work at a weird time to go to Stiles’ favorite greasy spoon, ‘open 24/7, even on holidays!’ as the hand-painted sign on the window declares. Their visits become so frequent that they now both know the name and basic life story of every member of the wait staff.

Derek starts taking Stiles running with him in the mornings. 

 “Can’t have you passing out while you’re out there playing cops and robbers,” he reasons when Stiles asks him a plaintive _why?_

 “I am an officer of the law, Derek,” Stiles pants as he barely manages keep pace with Derek’s light jog, “You should show me some respect; I could have you arrested.”

“Oink, oink,” Derek says seriously, picking up speed as Stiles tries and fails to sprint after him and tackle him.

“Hate you,” Stiles grumbles later as Derek tosses him an ice pack to press to the shoulder he’d banged up nicely with his ill-fated attempt to take Derek down.

“I don’t know why you’re complaining, I’m the one who had to carry your ass home,” Derek huffs.

“Oh, like it was hard for you and all your stupid muscles,” Stiles snaps, glaring when Derek just laughs.

Stiles sets himself gingerly down on the couch, groaning loudly. “Oh, my god, this couch sucks _._ We need new furniture, Derek! I’m tired of this shitty ass couch. _And why don’t we have_ _chairs?_ Or bookshelves! Or—”

And that’s how they end up making a daytrip to the IKEA in Sacramento, and before Derek knows it, the loft is furnished and looks like an actual, inhabitable living space.

Scott gradually starts bringing the pack over to train—as they’d been doing in his absence, he learns. Derek doesn’t mind, even invests in some heavy duty equipment for them, werewolf tested and approved. God knows they have the space.

One day he wakes up and looks around and realizes that Stiles’ things have taken over his room, his clothes all mixed in with Derek’s, that stupid glass writing board of his stuck in the corner, newspaper cutouts and Stiles’ cramped writing covering it from top to bottom, their books already taking over every available shelf in the massive mahogany bookcase that runs along the entire east wall, the one Stiles and Isaac and Scott had helped him put in just last week (mostly Isaac; Scott and Stiles had been too busy goofing around the entire time to be of much assistance).

His bed smells like him and Stiles, his house smells like pack and it occurs to him that he is well and truly content.

He doesn’t know how it happened, or why, this thing they have. Doesn’t know how or when he started building a home with Stiles, or how the reluctant acquaintanceship he’d formed with an unruly teenager had grown into something so big and clean and _right._

He supposes it could’ve been born out of necessity, mutual need and, later, trust, but if he’s honest with himself, he and Stiles felt like an inevitability from the first moment they set eyes on each other. He’d realized it years ago, what he was starting to feel for Stiles, though he’d tried not to because of the age difference and his own damaged sense of self-worth. But they’re older now, settled; Stiles is here with him of his own freewill, and Derek is running out of convincing arguments when he tries telling himself it doesn’t mean what he wants it to mean.

Derek carefully removes Stiles’ arm from around his stomach (when had that become normal?) and stands, needing to get out of here and move, his thoughts too big for what is, suddenly, too confining a space.

He sheds his skin once he’s got the door closed and locked up tight behind him, unworried about someone seeing him in his wolf form. It’s early, still dark out, and even if anyone does suspect what he is, Scott and Argent have things under control on the supernatural and hunter fronts, respectively.

He only makes it a few miles into the Preserve before he turns around, wanting to be back home with Stiles. Which is pathetic; it’s barely been an hour and Stiles probably hasn’t even realized he’s gone, but there it is. And that’s how he knows it’s time.

Stiles is, predictably, drooling on Derek’s pillow when he returns, and Derek is still frightened of how much he doesn’t mind, but unsurprised. This has been a long time coming.

Derek lets him sleep, showering and whipping up a stack of pancakes to kill some time. Stiles is always trying to get him to make breakfast anyway.

He sets the table, puts the coffee on and trudges upstairs, stomach fluttering with nerves in a way it hasn’t since he was a teenager.

Derek sits beside Stiles at the edge of the bed and shakes him gently.

“Wake up. I made food,” he grumbles.

Stiles’ only response is a light snore. Derek huffs a laugh and pushes his hair away from his forehead, touches the tip of his strange little turned up nose and the moles lining his jaw.

“Come on, Stiles,” he murmurs, thumb smoothing over his cheekbone.

Stiles snuffles softly against his pillow, unconsciously pressing closer to Derek’s hand. He blinks himself awake a few seconds later.

He squints up at Derek, expression immediately softening. “Morning, big guy. Sleep well?” he asks around a yawn. “Is that pancakes and bacon I smell or am I dreaming? Because I’ve been bugging you to make me breakfast for _months_ and you _never_ do—”

It never ceases to amaze him, how Stiles can be dead asleep one moment and unable stop talking the next.

“I make dinner,” Derek points out, amused.

“You do,” Stiles agrees, “And I love you for that. But imagine how much _more_ I’d love you if you regularly made breakfast, too.”

Derek’s eyes widen in amazement. Stiles has already moved on to another topic, happily complaining about something Derek’s brain can’t make sense of because Stiles loves him.

He supposes he knew that. Why else would Stiles have all but moved in with him and be sleeping in his bed? But hearing it is an entirely different animal.

And Derek can’t help himself. He leans in to place a soft kiss on the corner of Stiles’ still-working mouth.

Stiles breathes in sharply, freezing, and Derek quickly pulls away, wanting to give Stiles the chance to tell him ‘no’ if he wants to, which he might because they’ve never talked about this, whatever they’re doing; they just sort of fell into it, and what if Stiles _doesn’t_ want him that way? What if he only shares Derek’s bed and his clothes and his home because he feels safe here and now Derek has taken that from him?

What if he leaves?

 But before Derek can work up to a decent panic, Stiles smiles up at him, happy and bright.

“What took you so long?” he asks, an echo of a past conversation.

The panic fades to background noise as Derek realizes, wondering, that Stiles wants this, too; as long as Derek has, possibly longer. He’s just been waiting on him. On Derek.

And it’s kind of like a punch to the gut, because in all his life, with all of the flings and failed relationships—even the good, if short-lived one with Braeden—he’s never really had anyone that was willing to wait for him, that didn’t pressure or push or take in some way without asking.

Stiles sits up slowly and puts his hands in his lap, twitching like he wants to reach out and touch, but not sure if he should. “You okay?”

Derek nods to convey that he is, just a little overwhelmed.

“Take your time, okay. I’ll be here,” Stiles says firmly, and Derek’s never believed anything more.

“I’ve never had- this,” he says at last.

The words aren’t right. He’s never been good with expressing feelings, but he’s willing to try because this is different. It’s Stiles.

Another bright burst of panic hits him in the chest.

 _It’s_ _Stiles._

 He could ruin this. Given his track record, he _will_ ruin this.

“It’s okay.”

Stiles is still looking at him, expression soft like it always is for Derek. There may be overlying emotions, playfulness and warmth, occasionally mild irritation or hurt—but there’s always a softness underneath. _Stiles_ is so soft, so human.

It terrifies him, but if there’s one person Derek could ever get past that fear for, it’s this one.

“I’ve never— I-” Derek’s chest constricts, breath shaky. He closes his eyes. “Fuck. _Fuck_. I’m messing this up.”

Stiles shakes his head, mouth opening as if he’s about to say something, but Derek speaks again before he can.

“You looked back.” Stiles’ eyebrows furrow in confusion. “In Mexico,” Derek hurries to explain and Stiles’ expression clears. “Your best friend’s life was on the line and you looked back and I knew just from the look on your face that you would stay if I asked.”

Stiles looks away, biting down on his lip. “Scott would’ve been okay probably,” he jokes, mouth turning up at the corners. His heart is beating erratically and Derek’s is struggling to match its pace.

“Maybe,” Derek says, “but maybe not. It’s _Scott.”_

Stiles laughs and Derek could probably listen to the sound of it forever and only barely get annoyed.

“No one’s ever meant as much to me as you do,” Derek admits quietly before he loses all nerve, and Stiles looks like he’s had the breath knocked out of him.

Derek _feels_ like he’s had the breath knocked out of him.

He redirects his gaze to the top of his blanket. “I just. I don’t—”

“Hey,” Stiles says softly, ducking in to press their forehead’s together. “Hey, if you think I don’t feel the same—”

Derek shakes his head and pulls away slightly. “That’s not it. I was so ready to just tell you. Just get it out there and see if there was a chance, but... What if I do something? What if I fuck this up? What if you change your mind about me and I—”

Stiles takes Derek’s hand in his, smiling like he knows something Derek doesn’t. “I don’t think you understand just how invested in this I am, big guy. You can try fucking it up all you want, but I’m my father’s child; stubbornness is in my blood.”

Derek snorts a laugh, agreeing with him, and Stiles’ mouth curves almost wistfully.

“Better get out while you can, Derek, or you’ll never get rid of me.”

Derek lets his lips brush against Stiles’ when he replies. “That so?” he says seriously, eyes shining a soft blue.

“Then again, you never did know when to quit while you’re ahead,” Stiles mutters. “Oh, well, no use trying to fight it now,” he says in a brighter tone, arms winding around Derek’s neck as Derek pulls him in for another kiss, deeper this time and filled with intent.

They lose a few days, making up for lost time. 

-

It’s winter when they share their first kiss.

The witch’s sister comes in spring.

**Author's Note:**

> idk don't look at me
> 
> SN: lmk if there are any glaring inconsistencies; I'm still without wifi so I'm posting this from my phone and as you can probably imagine, it's a bit of a nightmare editing something this long on a screen this fucking tiny :) 
> 
> [tumblr](http://livthelion.tumblr.com)
> 
> Thanks for reading ❤️


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